


fear is a liar

by parkrstark



Series: SuperCrazyFamily [8]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Dissociation, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-27 22:42:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20768141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parkrstark/pseuds/parkrstark
Summary: “It’s not your fault, you know,” he whispered softly.Peter did know. When he was able to think clearly and really think about how ridiculous it was to blame himself for something like that, he knew. He knew 100% that it wasn’t his fault.But at times like these, when his brain felt like mush and his body was so heavy he had to get out of it just so it didn’t drown him, it was impossible to remember.





	fear is a liar

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very heavy vent fic written on my floor at midnight with no editing. 
> 
> Please read the tags and proceed with caution. I don't want to trigger any of you. 
> 
> My experience put to Peter's past relationship in this series I already had going.

The door opened and it should have scared him. 

Only minutes ago, it would have terrified him. The very thought of someone coming into his room would have had him sticking his nails into his skin until he drew blood. Just to relish the pain, to focus on the pain of the present instead of the past. 

He could control the pain he did himself. He was in charge. It made him feel relieved in a way because when it hurt, he could stop it. He could end it whenever he wanted. His other pain didn’t work like that. His past pain was in charge and didn’t care if he wanted it or not. 

Unfortunately, that pain beat him that night. No warnings, no real triggers. Sometimes, it just happened like that. He could usually deal with that numb feeling it left. But when he decided to feel brave and flesh out the wound and the memories, to think about what happened and why he was so miserable, he didn’t feel numb anymore. 

He closed his eyes and he was back in time. A time he wished he could burn from his memory. 

A time when he was just as weak as he was now, maybe even more so. 

There were lips on his when he didn’t want it, but he didn’t stop it.  _ My fault.  _

There was a hand on his throat just enough to tease and a whisper in his ear: “Do you like it?” There was his mind screaming:  _ No, I hate it. Stop.  _ But his lips didn’t move.  _ My fault.  _

There were hands on his pants, tugging. There was a smirk on the face. “Have you tried it before? I can show you how.” He said no. He said he wasn’t interested. He got a laugh in return. “If you help, just ask.” He never asked for help. Not once.  _ My fault.  _

There were a lot of faults, mostly his. 

There was never enough to leave until the hands didn’t stop. The hands kept touching. The lips kept licking. The body pinned him down and didn’t let him move. He was shaking. He knew that. She knew that. “Are you okay?”  _ No, I’m not! I’m breaking, can’t you see?  _ Anxiety answered for him. “I’m fine.”  _ My fault.  _

Then there was the bed underneath him. He was trapped in that bed. The bed was dangerous, laying down was dangerous. That was an invitation. 

He stumbled out of his bed, tripping from the comforters. His breaths came in rapid wheezing. He fell to the ground, as from the bed as he could get and he dug his nails into legs until he stopped. He focused on the pain and didn’t stop until the rest was under control. He wanted to be in charge. It had to stop. 

He sat there, staring down at the floor, feeling pathetic. Once the panic subsided, it stole all of his energy with it. His body felt too weak to hold itself up, but looking at that bed just brought the memories back. The body back on him pinning him to the mattress. 

The floor was safe. The floor was cold and hard. The floor was the opposite of everything the bed was. 

He curled up and didn’t move. The bed mocked him, but he ignored it. He ignored it all. 

The door opened and it should have scared him. 

But whoever was at the door was late to the party. He had already wiped himself out from the panic. He didn't have any fight left in him. 

The light from the hall leaked in and illuminated his empty bed. The footsteps came inside and a voice followed. A voice unlike the one he’d been hearing before. This was soft and gentle and home. “Pete?”

Peter didn’t answer. Wasn’t sure if he wasn’t supposed to. He just wanted to lay there. Ignore it all. 

Then the footsteps came closer. Peter didn’t flinch. Maybe it was the safety in the voice or the apathy in his soul. “Oh, Pete…” 

He should have moved. He knew what happened when you just laid there and didn’t say a word. But that voice broke through everything else to keep him calm. 

“Rough night?” The voice asked, kneeling down so it was closer. 

Peter rolled over to put a face to the voice. Pops. That’s right. 

“Hey, bud...” 

Peter blinked his eyes and realized he was waiting for him to say something. Anything. His voice was rough. “Hey.” 

Pops didn’t have to ask. He knew. This wasn’t the first time he’d found him on the floor in the aftermath of an attack. It wouldn’t be the last time either. “Are you spending the night on the floor?”

Peter nodded his head once. 

Pops walked over to his bed and Peter knew he should be panicking. He should have warned Pops of the danger of beds. But he didn’t. He just watched. 

Pops picked up a blanket and a pillow and walked back over to him. He kneeled down, groaning as he did so. “Mind if I join you?” 

Peter blinked. He nodded. 

Pops smiled and laid the pillow down. “Is it okay if I touch you?”

Peter nodded. He needed it. He needed something. Something to ground him. Something to make him feel like he wasn’t about to float away just to escape it all. But Pops would never let him float away. He’d never let him go far. He laid down, scooting closer to Peter and wrapped an arm around Peter. 

Immediately, Peter was clinging to his shirt and holding on tight. Pops wrapped the blanket around them and he felt safe. 

“It’s not your fault, you know,” he whispered softly. 

Peter did know. When he was able to think clearly and really think about how ridiculous it was to blame himself for something like that, he knew. He knew 100% that it wasn’t his fault. 

But at times like these, when his brain felt like mush and his body was so heavy he had to get out of it just so it didn’t drown him, it was impossible to remember. 

There was a strong arm wrapped around him, holding him close.  _ Not my fault.  _

There was a gentle but firm voice whispering a mantra to him.  _ Not my fault.  _

There was a heartbeat thumping in a soothing rhythm.  _ Not my fault.  _

There was a sense of safety between the two of them curled up on the floor.  _ Not my fault.  _

Love told him:  _ not your fault.  _

Fear told him:  _ your fault.  _

Fear was a goddamn liar. 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I debated sharing this, but I feel like I needed to share this with anyone struggling. Fear is a liar. Those moments when you're at your worst and you think it's your fault just remember that fear is a liar. Nothing more.


End file.
